


Unconventional Pleasures

by Bold_as_Brass



Series: An Unconventional Affair [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dubious Consent, Humor, M/M, Oral Sex, Rimming, Seduction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-18
Updated: 2012-07-27
Packaged: 2017-11-10 04:34:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/462245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bold_as_Brass/pseuds/Bold_as_Brass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is taken to Mycroft's house to provide a personal consultation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place about a week after _Unconventional Medicine._

John hadn't visited the Holmes’s family pile before although he’d heard Sherlock mention it in dismissive terms. He’d have enjoyed the occasion more if he’d been given any choice in the matter. As it was, he’d spent the best part of an hour chuntering away in the back of a black Jag, mysteriously minus any phone signal and without even Anthea to compensate. He was now, unless his sense of direction was absolutely FUBARed, somewhere to the south west of London out in leafy Surrey, more specifically standing in a large elegant room, full of firelight and gold-toned antique wood, in front of Mycroft Holmes.

And not, it had to be said, in a good mood.

Mycroft swirled the dark spirit in his glass and held it up to the light before replacing on the low table in front of him. He was sitting by the fire in a wing armchair, still wearing a three piece suit, his only concession to the lateness of the hour an unbuttoning of his waistcoat.

“But you do understand,” he said, “that with Sherlock being Sherlock, some precautions are advised if we are to speak privately.”

“And what about Em?” said John. “We were supposed to be going for pizza.”

He’d planted himself in the centre of the room, refusing any offer of a seat. To one side a large gracious dining table, currently unlaid, stood next to a long window. It was dark outside and the glass had become a mirror, reflecting back a scene of understated luxury with John in the middle of it very battered and worn and out of place.

“Emma, according to her internet dating account, had already arranged another meeting tonight with Pete, an architect from,” Mycroft took out his notebook, consulted it and nodded, “Guildford. She’s on her way there now. I fear to say, that she may have forgotten about you.”

“Oh,” said John, the wind rather taken out of his sails. The text messages _had_ died off, still, he’d been looking forward to that pizza.

“A lamentable error on her account,” said Mycroft. “I can assure you John; _I_ have not have forgotten about you.”

Here it came; best get it over with. “Yeah,” he said. “About last week.”

“I bear you no ill will,” said Mycroft.

“No?” said John. He’d kind of guessed that because he was still alive but on the other hand here he was, kidnapped for all intents and purposes. Again. “So why am I here?”

“I was hoping for your assistance,” said Mycroft, and before John could ask precisely what _that_ meant added. “But I am forgetting my duties as a host. Something to eat?”

He indicated a sideboard where a sliver cloche covered a brass salver. John lifted it cautiously. He was very hungry but if it turned out to be oysters he was going home right now, even if that meant walking up the A3 on his own two feet. Fortunately it was hiding nothing more threatening than a couple of sandwiches. Smoked salmon in one, roast beef in the other. He chose the salmon and, since standing around in the middle of the room holding a plate felt far too much like a networking event, conceded to sit in the nearest chair. It creaked in a way that suggested it really was a valuable antique and not just a skilful reproduction.

“Not having one yourself?”

“Thank you, no.”

John shrugged, took a mouthful of sandwich then closed his eyes for a moment in bliss. The bread was soft and very fresh, the butter creamy, smooth and just slightly lactic. The salmon had a texture like silk and tasted of clean, salty sea air. There was no lemon, no dill, no claggy cream cheese. It was simplicity itself and as sandwiches went, it deserved its very own Michelin star.

Mycroft leaned forward in his seat, eyes intent. “Is it good?” he said.

John chewed, swallowed. “Amazing," he said honestly.

“Excellent.”

They sat in silence for a while, John giving his full attention to the sandwich; Mycroft apparently content to stare into the fire and think his own complicated thoughts.

“Would you like another?” he asked once John was done. “The beef is from a local herd.”

“I think,” said John, the food had mellowed him, “that I’d like to know why you brought me here please. Before I get too comfy.”

“Yes of course. Something to drink, then,” Mycroft lifted his glass, “while we talk? I have a rather good Islay malt here, if you'd like.”

I’m being wined and dined, thought John. He’s trying to soften me up. If the Scotch is as good as the salmon, it might just work. The whisky sat on a table next to a set of crystal glasses and a jug of cool water. He poured himself a couple of fingers, added a splash of water and took a sip.

For his 30th birthday the guys in his mess had clubbed together and bought him an eighteen-year-old single malt. It had been a warm gold and velvety smooth, smelling of wood smoke, brown sugar and seaweed and tasting of peat and brine and toffee with a long lingering sweetness. Compared to this, it had been paint stripper.

“That,” he said when the last notes had faded away, leaving behind a slow lingering warmth, “is a superb whisky.”

“Isn’t it?” said Mycroft. “I have to ration myself I'm afraid. Have a seat John,” he waited until John had sat. “Now, I have decided to take your advice.”

“Right, good,” he said. “What advice?”

“I have been undertaking your exercises every day and I have, as you suggested, set aside some time for relaxation, in anticipation of which, I have made a purchase,” Mycroft indicated an open box on the table in front of him.

John leant forward to have a look. It took him a moment to register what it was. At first he assumed a paper weight or a piece of abstract metal sculpture. It wasn't until he saw the ring at the base that he realised it was what was most probably marketed as a ‘gentleman’s pleasure device.’ An anal plug essentially; extremely expensive, exquisitely designed and nestled in its own presentation box.

“Oh,” he said stupidly and took a fortifying gulp of whisky. “Stainless steel. Yes, very good, you can put it in the dishwasher,” before realising that Mycroft had probably never even _seen_ a dishwasher and if he did in fact have one, it was most likely a specially trained employee with a diploma in care of antique ceramics from a Parisian academy.

“Useful to know,” said Mycroft solemnly. “I must admit such things are rather new to me. My pleasures have always tended towards,” he hesitated, “the oral.”

Ok. Well, he probably deserved this after last week. “Lube,” he said, "of course, and well, I would probably try to warm it up before using it. Not too hot, don’t want any burns, but leave it in a bowl of warm water for a few minutes, that should do the trick.”

“You misunderstand me,” said Mycroft. “I do not require your advice on how to use the item.”

“No?” Well that was a relief.

“However, I would enjoy your assistance in helping me achieve, shall we say, the right frame of mind to fully appreciate it.”

And there it was.

“Mycroft,” said John. “While I understand how some of my recent actions might have given you that impression, I’m not actually gay.”

“Well no,” said Mycroft after a moment’s tactful pause, “but then we all have our youthful indiscretions, don’t we,” he held John’s eyes for a second and John was left to wonder just how many of the furtive encounters round the back of the army wagon when he’d been young, randy and a long way from home, had made it into Mycroft’s notebook. “In my early twenties for example, I would frequent Horse Guards and pick up soldiers from the Household Calvary,” he sighed. “They always had the most magnificent thighs.”

“And why are you telling me this?”

“I understood we had an agreement of mutual confidentiality,” said Mycroft. “Besides, those days are long behind me now. I met my Departmental Head on Birdcage Walk one balmy spring evening in the late eighties. We both decided discretion was the better part of valour and that was the end of it. Still, I have always found something very…compelling about the bravery of a soldier.”

“Bravery was just another word for stupidity, I thought.”

“True,” said Mycroft gravely. “Well that of course, has its own charms.”

“So you’ve got a thing for men in green, is what you’re saying.”

“Yes.”

John shook his head. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Oh?” Mycroft sounded politely surprised.

“I think you want to get one up on Sherlock, and this is just another way of doing it."

"Really?"

"Yeah." It was difficult to muster a great deal of indignation in the face of such excellent whisky, but John did his best. "And I'm not about to become caught up in your sibling rivalries.”

“I fear it may be a little late for that,” said Mycroft and fell silent for a few moments. “John," he said eventually. "My brother is jealous, controlling and not above manipulating people to get what he wants.”

John snorted.

“Faults from which I am not immune, of course, but do you honestly believe you would have gone out tonight if he'd thought there was any chance of you developing a relationship with this Emma?”

John blinked, “Well yeah-”

“No, John. He would have found a reason for you to stay and you would have stayed. Very admirable of course. Very loyal. But don’t you think it would be wise to reserve a little part of yourself from him?”

“By having sex with you? You think I should maintain my independence from Sherlock by having sex with you. His older brother.”

He couldn't keep the incredulity from his voice. The thing was, in Mycroft's looking-glass world, this probably made perfect sense. He took another reflexive mouthful of whisky.

“And one of the few people who can guarantee your privacy,” said Mycroft sharply. “But no, in answer to your question, I am not asking you to have sex with me.”

“What,” said John, “precisely are you asking, then? Spell it out for me in very simple words, Mycroft. Remember that I’m not very clever.”

“Nothing you would find unpleasant,” said Mycroft.

“Not actually answering,” said John. He drained his glass - sacrilege truly - put it down on the nearest non-antique surface and looked for the door.

“No part of me will enter any part of you,” said Mycroft.

“Still not an answer,” said John. There didn’t appear to be a door, but he’d been escorted in through one, so there had to be.

“In fact, I will remain fully clothed throughout.”

“You can’t help yourself can you?” said John. “You just can’t give a straight answer. They beat it out of you at civil servant school, or something.”

He’d come in facing the fireplace, which meant it was somewhere on the back wall.

There. The door was part of the wood panelling, but the shadows cast by the hinges gave it away.

“I wish,” said Mycroft, clearly, “to spread you out over that dining table, lick this rather good whisky from between your naked buttocks, then turn you over and suck you off.”

John paused, hand on door knob, then turned slowly and leant against the wall. “And what makes you think I wouldn’t find that unpleasant?”

“Oh, really, John," said Mycroft and he had the gall to sound exasperated, “I'm not asking for your active participation. All that is required of you is to lie back and think of England or Emma or…“ His lips formed an ‘S'.

John bristled. If he said Sarah, John was going to thump him. If he said, _Sherlock_ , John didn’t know what he was going to do but it boded badly for several of the antiques.

“Something else entirely,” said Mycroft, “what could be unpleasant about that?”

“I don’t think that’s how people work,” said John.

“People: perhaps not,” said Mycroft. “You: perhaps so.”

“And if I say no?” said John. “If I tell you to shove it and your whisky and say I want to go home?”

“You won’t,” said Mycroft with a quiet, aggravating confidence.

“Why not?” said John and he really, really wanted to know.

“Firstly,” said Mycroft, “John,” and he made the word sound like a caress, “because I am extremely orally focussed and you, I believe, have been rather neglected in that respect of late.”

"Ok," said John. He had the nasty feeling that any comment he made about that would be far too revealing. "What else?”

"Secondly, your very English sense of fair play will insist that since last week you took a number of liberties with my person, this week it is only right for you to reciprocate. Sauce for the goose and all that," Mycroft gave a brief hard-edged smile. "But as we both know, those are minor considerations when compared to the third."

John licked his lips, tasted whisky. "Which is?"

"You have consistently and repeatedly shown yourself to have an almost magnetic attraction to danger," said Mycroft. "And this, my dear Doctor, would almost certainly be a very foolhardy and unwise thing for you to do.”

John stared. Mycroft was still sitting in his armchair, smooth, unruffled, slowly circling the untasted spirit around his glass.

He hasn’t taken a single sip. He’s been rationing himself. So he can use it on me.

A low heat kindled in his belly. Possibly the whisky; possibly something else.

_Oh fuck it._


	2. Chapter 2

“Excellent,” said Mycroft as though he'd replied, although John was fairly sure he hadn’t made a sound. “Then I shall lay out a cloth. I hope you don’t mind?” he added. “The table is George III and the patina rather delicate.”

"Um, no,” said John, watching nonplussed as Mycroft began opening cupboards, suddenly all business. “So. What now?”

"Shoes and trousers off please.”

“Just shoes and trousers?” said John. He toed off his shoes uncertainly as Mycroft went about what appeared to be a very practised set of preparations: covering the table and pulling up a low chair.

“For the time being,” said Mycroft setting out a coaster and placing his glass upon it. He glanced up, saw John’s face and added politely, “Another drink?”

“Sherlock would smell it on me.”

“Yes,” said Mycroft, “he would.” He paused for a second, fingerstips stroking the tablecloth, expression brooding. There was a note in his voice which John hadn’t heard before: something darker than his normal practised fluency. “Perhaps not then,” Mycroft said and indicated the table with his hand.

He’s right, John thought. I’m bang in the middle of a Holmes territorial dispute and I hadn’t even noticed. This is a stupid idea. I need to stop this right now. And with that he unbuckled his belt, undid his fly and let his trousers drop to the floor.

“How do you want me?” he said making it sound cocky, making it sound brash and saw two answering spots of colour appear high on Mycroft’s cheekbones.

“On your front, legs apart.”

He stepped out of his trousers and padded across the room, his socked feet noiseless on the thick carpet. He felt a bit of a prat, to be honest, but brazened it out.

“Yes,” said Mycroft when he was in place. “Good. Lift your hips. Let us remove this monstrosity.”

The monstrosity was his best pair of pants, removed without ceremony and tossed to one side. He thought of protesting, but a twenty quid pair of boxers would be nothing to Mycroft. He rested his head on his folded hands instead and waited, intensely aware of the unseen scrutiny. The linen was rough against his bare skin, the table beneath hard and unyielding. Was he going to be here long? Suck you off, Mycroft had said. That might not take very long at all if he were honest: it had been a while.

There was the faint chime of a fingernail hitting finest crystal and a sudden shocking stripe of cool liquid streaked across the top of his thigh. For a moment nothing further happened, the evaporation of alcohol cooling the whisky to an icy tingle, then came a scorching swipe of a tongue along the crease of his arse.

“Ah, Doctor,” said Mycroft after a second, his lips just brushing John’s skin. “It’s even better than I had hoped.”

"My arse or the whisky?”

“Don’t be obtuse.” Mycroft's chair creaked as he sat, “I have always known the whisky to be excellent.” Just within John’s field of vision, the glass was replaced on the coaster. “And now if you don’t object I shall 'freshen you up', as they say, and then we shall begin.”

John shrugged as best he could. He hadn't expected Mycroft to be anything less than fastidious. He wondered briefly how Em’s evening was going - almost certainly not like his unless Pete from Guildford was a very naughty boy - then forgot about it entirely something soft, wet and cool touched his skin. Christ, he thought, I’m having my arse wiped by Mycroft Holmes and had to bite the inside of his mouth to prevent himself from dissolving into hysterical giggles.

“I’m glad you find the situation amusing,” said Mycroft a little tartly. “So many men in your position would be intimidated.”

“That’s why you like me,” said John. “You don’t scare me.” It was the sheerest bravado, spread out as he was, on a priceless antique, without his pants. Still, he wondered once he'd said it, if it might be true.

“Have you considered that perhaps I’m just not trying?” said Mycroft. “Now let me bring you into a better position.” The cloth, with John on it, was jerked towards the edge of the table, spilling his thighs over the edge. “Rest your shins upon my seat.”

The chair was wide enough for John to straddle his legs across Mycroft’s, leaving him perfectly positioned for maximum access with minimum effort. He had a sneaking suspicion it had been made bespoke for precisely this purpose.

“Good,” said Mycroft. “Excellent.” A hand smoothed up John’s leg. “Lie there and think pleasant thoughts.”

The glass disappeared from the coaster. After a second a single spot of cool liquid landed at the base of John’s spine, paused for a second, then began to trickle its way slowly down the cleft of his arse. John exhaled, closed his eyes then, struck by a sudden thought, opened them again.

“Mycroft?”

“Yes?” From the gust of hot damp air across his skin Mycroft’s mouth was bare inches away.

“I’m still wearing my socks.”

“I know,” said Mycroft. It was practically a purr.

John craned over his shoulder to stare in disbelief. “I _knew_ you were kinky.”

“Oh, really Doctor,” said Mycroft his expression indulgent. “Is sock-clad sex is the most depraved thing you can imagine? Perhaps there are some things I can teach you, after all.”

And he set about doing just that.

 

* * *

 

It felt nice John thought, once he’d got used to it: slow cool drip of whisky rolling across his skin, its path traced by a nimble tongue. Sherlock would sneer at him for saying ‘nice’ - not the time to be thinking about Sherlock - it felt…pleasant, it felt…relaxing, it felt decidedly decadent - hot wet tongue licking between his cheeks. He wasn’t going to get off from it, his dick was in a state of semi-hard confusion about the whole situation, but he’d experienced worse in his time and thought it good, dirty fun.

Mycroft was certainly enjoying himself; making soft sounds of pleasure as he chased down each droplet and lapped them up with abandon. The skin of his chin was satiny smooth as it rubbed against the inside of John’s thighs, must have shaved for company. He was a hairier man than Sherlock but even more particular in his grooming. He groaned silently, _don’t_ think about Sherlock.

“Pleasant thoughts,” said Mycroft warningly, his voice setting off weird vibrations, and nipped just at the top of his thigh, where the skin was most tender.

John gave an embarrassingly high pitched yelp that mixed surprise, pain and something else. “No marks,” he warned.

“Oh hush,” said Mycroft, “No one will see.” The darker note was back in his voice, and he nipped again on the other leg before dragging the teeth of his lower jaw lightly against the skin. Staking a claim John thought and was abruptly and most definitely hard. Perhaps Mycroft felt the change because he returned to his ministations with increased enthusiasm, spreading John even wider, the thrusts of his tongue sweetly obscene. And that felt really nice, made him want to rut up against the tablecloth, grind his hips, get some friction going.

_\- ‘Nice’ John, really? Again?_

_\- Sexy, Sherlock - ok? Arousing._   


“Over,” said Mycroft decisively and with surprising strength rolled John onto his back where he lay gaping, dazed and a little stupid, his dick standing over his belly like a flagpole.

“Over?” he said.

Mycroft sat back in his chair and lifted his empty glass, for all the world as though he were at an exclusive Mayfair club. Only the dark glint in his eyes suggested anything untoward was happening. “I suppose I could have another,” he said, “if you like to draw these things out?”

His eyes dropped meaningfully to John’s crotch.

“No,” said John quickly, he’d been promised a blow job after all and- something caught his eye. “Um. Could you shut the curtains?”

“No,” said Mycroft simply.

“But someone might see in." Unlikely, outside was probably nothing but Holmes estate until halfway to Hampshire but the long, bare panes were unnerving. Who knew what security Mycroft had patrolling outside. Or Anthea; Anthea could be out there talking on her Blackberry. Lovely Anthea, with her long, glossy hair and her round, glossy mouth-

“Last week, I received the impression that you found that possibility distinctly exciting,” said Mycroft, expertly derailling that train of thought. He lifted one of John’s legs so the calf rested upon his shoulder and paused with a half-smile, a thumb idly rubbing against the soft skin on the back of his knee.

Oh shit, _was_ there someone out there? Maybe this was what Mycroft did on a Thursday evening, invited round all the neighbours to watch as he debauched a member of Her Majesty's Armed Forces on top of the Sheraton. John pushed up onto his elbows to stare out into the night but saw only his half naked form reflected back, laid out on the finest white table linen like a banquet.

_I’m still wearing my bloody socks!_

Mycroft’s hand meandered over his leg to rest on his thigh. “Do you ride, Doctor?” he said. His fingers began tracing slow circles upwards.

“Er, what?” said John distracted from his reflection by the sight of Mycroft’s pale well-tended hand only six inches away from his dick. “Couple of times, in the army.”

“But not since,” said Mycroft. “Lack of interest, lack of opportunity or some other reason, I wonder?” His stroked along John’s inner thigh before reaching upwards to cup his balls.

“Um,” said John. He was becoming confident enough in interpreting Mycroft-speak to be fairly certain that they weren’t talking about horses but he wasn’t sure which answer would encourage Mycroft’s hand those all-important last few inches to his dick.

“Perhaps a discussion for some other time,” said Mycroft smoothly. He lifted John’s other leg onto his free shoulder with unmistakable intent and stared hungrily down. “I do enjoy a foreskin,” he said. “It provides such a delicious sense of anticipation.”

John blinked. It wasn’t a part of his anatomy he was used to having praised. Eyes: yes; bottom: on occasion (less so now than in his twenties if he were honest) foreskin: no.

“Don't have one yourself?” he said stupidly. He probably should have noticed that, what with being a Doctor and all, but Mycroft had been so extravagantly hard at the surgery that it was difficult to recollect.

“No,” said Mycroft, sounding regretful. “A medical procedure when I was younger, Doctor Pearson advised me to have it removed.”

“Sherlock’s got one though,” said John without thinking. “Not that I look,” he added in response Mycroft’s raised eyebrow, “but, you know, flatmates.”

Flatmates and Sherlock’s rather cavalier approach to nakedness.

“Yes,” said Mycroft. “Well. He always has had an exhibitionist streak. During his more obnoxious teenage years he would sometimes taunt me about it. Something he had that I didn’t.”

Dear God, John collapsed back onto the table. He could just imagine it. Mad as badgers the pair of them. There was nothing they couldn’t turn into a competition. He grinned as a new thought occurred. “So,” he said, before he could stop himself, “there _are_ some things money can’t buy.”

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed. “John,” he said eventually. “While I  _do_ enjoy your pawky sense of humour, you would do well to remember that I am currently cradling both of your testicles in my right hand.”

“Oh,” said John. “Yep.”

"And that not everything is an appropriate target for your schoolboy wit."

"Right." He wondered uneasily what Mycroft was like when he was _really_ trying to be scary.

“In fact,” said Mycroft, “I am quite tempted to call a premature end to this little episode and pack you off home. But,” he added with a sudden wicked smile, just as John had drawn breath, “that would be depriving myself just as much as you, and I have never been a great believer in the benefits of self-denial.”

And without further warning, hesitation or deviation he leant forwards and swallowed John down.

“Oh _fuck!”_ John heard himself wail. He grabbed the sides of the table, patina be damned, and held on for dear life. After all that build up he might have expected Mycroft to feint or tease or tarry. Nothing of the sort. John had received a fair few blow jobs in his time and some of them had been spectacular but he didn’t think he’d ever been sucked with quite so much enthusiasm. Mycroft’s mouth was a constant pulling heat and his preferred approach seemed to be to try to cram as much of John into it as possible before drawing slowly upwards. As a technique it combined zero finesse with almost complete effectiveness. He discovered a new and profound respect for the Household Cavalry, not the brightest regiment but men of great stamina apparently; he managed to withstand three rounds before struggling upright and shaking Mycroft by the shoulder.

“Slow down,” he croaked. “I’m only human.”

Mycroft relinquished him for a moment and looked up, his expression positively satanic. “You appear to be labouring under a misapprehension, Doctor," he said. "Your role here is not to endure; it is to succumb. Utterly and entirely.”

And with that he returned to his self-appointed task with vigour.

John toppled backwards onto the table, giving his head a sharp tap, and went with it. It was over almost embarrassingly fast. He thought in a confused way about Em and Anthea, Sarah, and, for a disturbing moment, Sherlock, but none of them really did justice to reality. The most dangerous man I’ve ever met is sucking my dick, he thought in hazy wonder and came, loud and hard.


	3. Chapter 3

“Thank you John,” said Mycroft once the echoes had died away. “That was most...invigorating. I shall enjoy replaying it later.”

Johns stared up at the ceiling trying to catch his breath. “You mean mentally replaying, yeah? Like Sherlock’s hard drive.”

“But of course,” said Mycroft. He produced a handkerchief and dabbed at his mouth delicately. “What kind of a man do you think I am?”

“Ok,” said John, he rolled carefully onto his side and slid off the table taking most of the cloth with him. “Not going to answer that. Where’s my pants?”

Mycroft folded his handkerchief back into his pocket and looked at him blandly. “When you’re ready,” he said. “I will call a car to take you home.”

John shook his head. “Knew you were depraved.” Commando it was then. He pulled on his trousers, found his shoes and looked for the door.

“One moment,” said Mycroft. He opened a drawer in the sideboard, took out a folder and removed a bundle of receipts and what looked like a napkin.“Put these in your pocket.”

“What is it?”

“An alibi. Stay there.”

John frowned but obeyed. Mycroft turned him to face the light, examined him critically for a moment then flicked some fluff from his shoulder and ruffled up his hair.

“Ok,” said John holding himself very still, "and what this?”

“If I told you, it would spoil it the effect,” said Mycroft. He dropped his hand and returned to his seat by the fire. “Suffice to say Sherlock will take one look, jump to a number of erroneous conclusions and your privacy will be ensured.”

“Really?” said John and when Mycroft looked up in enquiry added in explanation: “I’m not wearing any pants.”

“Sex has always been his blind spot,” said Mycroft. He lifted the presentation box and began to examine its contents.

“I meant it, you know,” said John, “I’m not a toy for you two to scrap over.”

Mycroft sighed. “Sooner or later John, practically everything is.”

“Not me,” insisted John. “You’re not using me to get one up on him.”

“Aren’t I,” said Mycroft face suddenly hard. “And why not? I can assure you if he found out about this he would not hesitate to use it against _me.”_

“I wouldn’t let him."

“Perhaps not,” said Mycroft, “you do seem to be a positive influence and Sherlock, despite his insistence to the contrary, has always been more soft-hearted than I. Still you cannot believe he would endorse such a situation?”

“He doesn’t own me, you know,” said John, annoyed.

“You’re your own man,” said Mycroft a trifle mockingly. “You make your own choices.”

“I do what I want, yeah.”

“You can’t be manipulated by the likes of Sherlock Holmes.”

“That’s right,” said John and straightened his shoulders.

Mycroft steepled his fingers under his chin. For a second the family resemblance was uncanny, then he smiled in a way entirely his own. “Second Thursdays, then?” he said.

“Sorry?”

“I have a gap in my schedule. Second Thursday of the month, eight until eleven.”

“Ok?” said John.

“Excellent,” said Mycroft. He produced his notebook and made a note. “I shall send a car for you.”

“Right,” said John, he wasn’t quite sure what had just happened. “What if we've got a case?"

“I shall exempt you if you have a case.” Mycroft made another note.

“Or I’m seeing someone?”

Mycroft frowned, crossed something out and rewrote. “Very well, I'm sure we can come to an arrangement.”

“Or working?”

“John,” Mycroft shut the notebook with a decisive snap. “While I am prepared to take second, and indeed third, place to Sherlock and your on-going ill-fated romantic entanglements I must warn you that I shall take umbrage if I find I am repeatedly bumped for an extra shift at A&E.”

John thrust his hands in his pockets and scowled. “I’m a Doctor, Mycroft. Sometimes things happen.”

“Of course,” said Mycroft and his sharp features softened slightly. “I shall make an exception if you are performing some form of life-saving intervention. Are we agreed?”

“Ok,” said John, decisively, that sounded reasonable, and then after a second “Sorry, what?”

Mycroft was staring into the fire once more, his expression pensive. “Do you see John? I barely had to try.”

John sat in the nearest chair, which happened to be Mycroft’s bespoke seat of debauchery. There was a coat of arms engraved into the arm rest, he noticed. Lion doing something unspeakable to a unicorn. “What did I just agree to?” he said.

“A demonstration, merely,” said Mycroft, "of how easy it is to be manipulated by a Holmes." He ripped the page out of his notebook and cast it into the flames. “Have a pleasant evening John, Richard will see you home.”

A door in the panelling opened, a minion summoned by an unheard signal hopefully, otherwise someone had been watching them on CCTV.

“Hello, Doctor Watson.”

John turned, blinked. “Oh, hello Rick," he said. "Not at the surgery today?”

“That was just a temporary position.”

“Course it was,” said John, he scrambled out of the chair. “You didn’t actually have a name badge either, did you?”

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Mycroft begin to smile.

Rick stood to one side politely to let him through the door. “Wasn’t there long enough to get one,” he said.

“Ok,” said John and turned on impulse, just on the threshold. “Night, Mycroft,” he called. “Let me know about that riding lesson, yeah?” and saw Mycroft’s expression change as the door swung shut.


End file.
